Thanks to the All-Star Game this weekend, every street and freeway choked with traffic like it was the 405 at rush hour as LA turned into Hotlanta West. I swear, I haven't seen this much Fubu and Baby Phat since my Fruitvale years, if even then.The big games meant lots of parties, so Friday night, Mel and I struck out for the "Purp and Yellow" shindig in Downtown.
You know that inane "Black and Yellow" song?--OH GOD! Why did I even mention it? Now it's stuck in my head. That is totally the Beetlejuice of rap songs. Say it three times and you can't get rid of it--
Anyway, "Purp and Yellow" was Snoop's rebuttal rap in honor of his beloved Lakers and the party was in a teammate's honor, which made the people-watching priceless as chickenheads and gold diggers pouring into their 99-cent hooker best in the blatant hopes of landing a baby daddy to call their very own.
Our favorite of the night was a quartet that looked like the ghetto, busted version of Danity Kane minus Aubrey (BTW, why am I so excited every time I see her on Oxygen weeping "I'm not 100 pounds anymore"?), led by angry black Sporty Spice who had a mohawk weave and was rocking a stained black bra, cropped pleather vest and leggings that were part vinyl, part fishnets.
Leggings are not pants. Stockings are not pants. Stockings made into leggings are CERTAINLY NOT PANTS! But we weren't going to tell her that; she was hardcore.
Also in the posse; an 80-pound Eastern European dame in a one-armed animal print shirt that she'd opted to call a dress, her 250-pound friend wearing a purple version of the same "dress," in the same size, which you could almost hear groaning with exhaustion as it battled to stay in one piece, and a girl whose name I feel I should know considering how well I got to know the thass part of her butt cheeks ("thass:" thigh/ass, the crescent moon of under buttocks that should only show in a bathing suit, aka: butt side boob) which were hanging out for the world to see.
Off. The. Charts.
But we weren't there for the ladies; Mel and I were hoping to find some nice gentlemen to make the night worthwhile. Scooping the scene, there were a few stand outs in the crowd, including one guy who looked like David Justice, and a funky white dude I eventually beelined for whose name was Brad.
In a black thermal with a thick brunette Beiber-ish mop, he had a little of the Jared Leto in him, minus any emo, and since the pickings were slim, I figured an introduction was in order. But within thirty seconds of chatting, I realized I'd have been better off making out with Black Scary Spice.
First of all, he told me he'd seen me standing by the bar earlier ordering a drink and was waiting for me to come over and say hi. Ummm, what's wrong with that picture? You see a girl at a bar ordering a drink, you walk over and offer to buy it for her, then strike up a conversation. Duh, Romeo.
Then, when I asked what he did, he said he was a musician.
"Oh! Cool. What instruments do you play?" I asked.
"None," he replied and then told me to guess what kind of music he made. Based on his look, I reached for Electric Country.
Nope. He's a rapper.
"Really?" I replied, my inner Oakland girl wanting to sneer. "Whose music does yours get compared to?"
"Tupac and LL Cool J," he told me.
"Whoa. Those are mighty hefty claims," I said.
"Look, I'll tell you this right now, there are three things I do where you've got to sign a waiver before it happens, because I can't be held responsible afterward: Listen to my rhymes, get a massage and get a kiss."
Yes, Brad really said that, among many other cocky, bragging claims, which is probably why I cut our conversation short with a good ol' "I have to work tomorrow" before slipping into the crowd.
But the next day I started thinking about it and realized, it's kind of a great concept! What do you do so well that someone needs to sign a waiver before it goes down? Brad's were lame and generic but when I told the story to one of my best friends the next day, we realized the genius and started thinking of things that would need a signed waiver.
-My dear friend Jemal is a tall, chiseled interracial Adonis who's kind, artistic, smart and converting to Judaism. Jewish girls are gonna need to sign a waiver before they see him read the Torah.
-Also Mahdi, Jemal's brother, breaks it OFF at Equinox. Girls need to sign a waiver before they see him in spinning class. (I'm not kidding, he has groupies in the class.)
-I call Rachel "Gumby." Men need to sign a waiver before they see how flexible she is.
And me...?
Well, not everyone knows this, but I'm an insanely dope jump roper, I was even in a jump rope workout DVD series with Eric Nies of MTV's The Grind fame. That might require a waiver. And, of course, there's the baking.
You better sign a waiver before you make these...
White Chocolate Foreplay Cookies
Makes about 2 dozen cookies, depending on size
3/4 cup salted butter (1 1/2 sticks)
1/2 cup granulated white sugar
1 cup light brown sugar (lightly packed)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large eggs
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup white chocolate chips or chunks
2 cups roasted, salted macadamia nuts, coarsely chopped
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
In large bowl, with mixer at medium speed, cream together butter and both sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time, and vanilla until well combined.
Reduce speed to low and beat in flour, baking soda and salt. Mix just until blended.
With wooden spoon, fold in white chocolate and macadamia nuts.
Lightly coat cookie sheet with cooking spray and drop rounded tablespoons of dough a few inches apart.
Bake until barely golden around edges, 10 to 12 minutes. The cookies should look slightly underdone when removed from the oven. That way, they will cool to chewy perfection. If they’re golden brown and look fully baked, they’ll only be useful as hockey pucks or loofahs once cool.
With wide spatula, transfer cookies to wire racks or sheets of wax paper to cool completely.
Repeat with remaining dough.
Sign a waiver and serve warm.
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